


And you want to travel with him, and you want to travel blind

by Evelyn_fireheart



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Creds to the OG man himself- Mr Phillip Pullman, F/M, His Dark Materials Inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:20:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22190041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evelyn_fireheart/pseuds/Evelyn_fireheart
Summary: Maria had drifted through the world, tetherless, until she bumped into Howard on a sidewalk in Italy, her home buzzing around her and restlessness in her bones.He asked for her name, and she had not one to give, so she chose another.Mariya Baranov had been her name, once. But it was once forced upon her alongside a skintight suit and a gun, and she did not want it. Wanting it meant wanting the rest of it- wanting blood and war and secrets- and she refused to do so.Howard Stark asked her what her name was and she paused, then said, “Maria Carbonell.”
Relationships: Howard Stark & Maria Stark & Tony Stark, Howard Stark/Maria Stark
Kudos: 9





	And you want to travel with him, and you want to travel blind

Music was playing as it always was in this town - _her_ town, where her parents had lived and breathed and _bled_ \- and she couldn't help but dance slightly as she walked, feet so light on the ground she almost floated, and arms fluttering at her sides in a way that was close to ballet, but not exact. In this place, with this light music and buttery sunshine, her arms were butterfly wings at her sides; she was not so regimental and strict with her body's movements as she had once been. 

Their survival no longer depended on it, after all. 

Pasijorn had huffed in fake annoyance, his breath tickling her neck, and for a moment her heart lightened even further. He had not laughed in so, so long and _oh_ how she missed it. The last time he had laughed had been before her first mission, before death had stained her hands and mouth and teeth, and before a headman's blade and the singing of its fall. She did not blame him; she had not laughed since then, either. 

But it would be nice. Reassuring. To know that what she had done to escape had been worth every scar and beating, every splash of blood spent on those hard, sterile floors. It was worth it for her, to know that they were finally out of their grip, perhaps not safe but for all the better for it because they were _free_ , and now she could walk down a street and dance with a wiggle of her soldiers and a slight lean onto her tiptoes, and not fear for what the commander would do if he found out.

Sighing quietly, her dæmon curled tighter around her shoulder, tail brushing along her jaw as his nose burrowed into her collarbone. _Be at peace,_ he whispered to her, warm and steady and calm, and Mariya breathed out. A tension she had not known she carried eased from her chest. Her arms lowered to her sides, but now she walked with a slight, barely noticeable smile on her lips, and somehow, she had never felt more _real._

She had never felt like she belonged more than she did on this thin, crowded street, filled with a thousand different types of people and their dæmons.   
_That's better,_ Pasijorn said. Mariya could feel the teasing smile in his voice, though she knew he would not show it on his face. _We did the right thing, Ria. I am scared for us, and for what will come, but it has always been that way. At least like this there is a chance it may not be terrible. That is a chance we did not have before, and I am glad we have it now. It was time._

Mariya tilted her head slightly, just so her face might brush against his fur. He was lean, short fur cloaking him in silver and grey, and like this a passer-by might think him a scarf, but he arched his back into her touch, letting her take comfort from his soft embrace and warmth, and when she turned to look at him his eyes were sharp and molten-gold, the vibrance of them almost outshining the honey light of summer. She smiled at him, nodded, and continued on. Pasijorn blinked slowly, ears twitching towards her, and then he melted back into her, loose over the curve of her shoulders.

It almost felt like he was trying to press himself into her skin, but she did not mention it, or even pretend to protest. They had a lot of time to make up for.

Mariya hummed under her breath as she walked, gaze catching on a stall that twinkled under the sun’s rays. She debated moving past it to find a quiet café to eat in, but then she saw the way the stained-glass decorations hanging on the poles glittered, and she sauntered over. _Such an eye for sparkly objects,_ Pasijorn murmured in her mind, not even opening an eye. Lazy bastard. _I'm surprised that I didn't settle as a magpie, instead._

 _Oh, hush,_ Mariya replied, stroking an absent finger down the line of his neck. _You love pretty things as much as I do, you little thief._ Neither of them mentioned the necessity his form had been and the fear she'd felt at him finally Settling, nor do they mention just who her greedy little dæmon had thieved from. Still, the word _corpses_ rings loud in her mind, and Pasijorn's claws dig into the flesh of her neck. She drags a finger down his neck again, more forcefully this time. 

Mariya finally looks up from the table, tearing her gaze from the beautiful little trinkets to meet the eyes of the seller, a wizened old lady. "Hello," she says in perfect Italian, "I am looking for a few souvenirs, and some decorations for my new home."

The lady narrows her eyes, and Pasijorn's claws dig in further, as if he might leap from her shoulder to gouge out her eyes should that suspicion continue, but then the lady nods slowly, and a smile spreads across her face. It touches her eyes, crinkling deep at the corners, and Mariya’s dæmon relaxes. It would not have surprised her if he had pounced on the dæmon resting on those wrinkled, gentle hands. 

It was a butterfly, wings a mix of sunset orange and the light pink of the dusk that followed, all encompassed with swirls of penetrating black. The dæmon was big as her palm, and certainly no match for Pasijorn.

Granted, there were few dæmons who were, due to his wiry strength and agility, and the way his training mixed with their mind. Sometimes, physical prowess was no match for pure, hard-earned skill, and this butterfly was but a dandelion in comparison to some of the dæmons he had felled in the past. _(Most of her commanders had dogs for dæmons, all obedient and sharp-toothed and trained, but her beautiful Pasi was faster, his claws sharp and tipped with something stronger than steel, and their eyes were as soft as the rest of them._

_They went down hard and he leapt from them before they even hit the ground, hitting the floor on light feet. She had never felt quite so sad as she did in the moment that the soldiers cried out in pain, and collapsed alongside their dæmons. Nor had she ever felt so proud as she did when those hulking beasts, so much bigger than Pasijorn, burst into Dust and he was cleared to join her in the field.)_

But Pasijorn calmed once more and it was as if nothing had happened -except for the fact that now his eyes were wide open, and they were fixed on the lady's dæmon. The butterfly quivered, and flew up to settle in their human's hair. The old lady did not address it, but her hands shook as she passed Mariya a pair of sunglasses and, though she could not tell whether it was age or anger or fear, she would bet her favourite knife that it was the latter.

 _Was that necessary? Mariya_ smiled at the woman, splitting her attention effortlessly, and her grin only twisted slightly when Pasijorn replied. _You know I can't help it. They trained it into me- the violence is part of me as surely as it is you. Don't act like you didn't size her up when you first saw her, too. You do it to everyone. We both do._

 _Point._ She elected to ignore it, following the old woman's lead, and turned her attention to the sunglasses in her hands. They were wide rimmed, the lenses almost as black as the frames, but there were little pieces of coloured glass around the edges, moulding around the frame to rise just a few centimetres above the line of the glasses, like little feathers.

She began to hum again, a soft little lullaby the nurse had sang when the handcuffs pulled at their wrists in winter, the cold stinging more than any of the punishments ever had. 

Mariya put on the glasses, and let out a soft little gasp. She loved them. They looked like something a young person would wear, bright and bold as the red of her lips and the honey of her hair, and she could barely see the outline of her eyes. There was no glimpse of the age and pain she always saw when she looked into her own irises, and it felt good. 

In fact, it felt like a tiny step towards true freedom.

She reached for her bag, hands already searching for her purse inside even as Pasijorn whispered, "They look lovely. Do you think they have them in my size?" into her ear in a mix of Spanish and English that they had developed long ago.  
His eyes did not leave the little butterfly dæmon, but if she reached for the tattered bond between them she could feel a pride emanating. Both for what she looked like -clean and young and peaceful- and for what they seemed like together. Innocent. Natural. Whole.

Mariya hissed a victorious, _"Yes!"_ as she finally felt the soft fabric of her purse, and she pulled it open, the pouch bending easily to her scrambling fingers.

Satisfied and grinning widely, she looked back to the old woman and reached over the flimsy table, a roll of lire notes in her hand. Shocked, the woman only stared back. Mariya thrust her hand further across the space, not yet leaning into the table but close to it, and made an expectant noise.

"I... cannot accept that much," the woman said, eyes darting from Mariya's eyes to her hand, and then to Pasijorn, whose clawed paws now dangled over her shoulder. Lemurs did not have such claws in the wild but, then again, Pasijorn was no ordinary animal. He was a dæmon, and he was Mariya's. Humans did not have such claws naturally either, and yet here they both stood. 

"Nonsense." Italian rolled off her tongue as easily as Russian did, as effortlessly as any of the other dozen languages she was fluent in, and much easier than the twenty or so she knew parts of. She wondered if it was too perfect, too practiced, and cursed her stupidity for not thinking to listen to natives speak before she did.  
Hers was fluent, and natural, the official language of the region, but it did not have the quirks that came with being a natural-born speaker, and so she stuck out like a sore thumb.

She would've been better off just acting like a tourist, speaking in English, rather than this. Hell, she probably would have been better off speaking plain Russian, even with the rumours about what they were developing in the north. There were many refugees in these parts, and she would've blended in smoothly. 

Too late for that now. Mariya altered her speaking so it just edged into a more academically structured way of speaking.

It had to be as if she had been taught over a short period of time with a high-level education, and not as if it were a language she had known since she was twelve, and had been taught through fear and punishment. "These are wonderful, and they are worth much more than I can give, I assure you."

The old woman watched her with knowing eyes, and Mariya knew that she understood what she was, where she was coming from. In these parts, natives learn quick how to spot a soldier, and they do it fast.  
"If you insist, silly girl," she said, rough with age and something that might have been sympathy, once. "But I demand that you take some of my other trinkets with you as well. Let them keep you company on the road."

Mariya saw the understanding in her eyes, and the warning. The butterfly nestled in that silver hair was no longer shaking, and when the woman handed over the bag her hands were steady as any she'd ever seen. They were rough with calluses, and Mariya recognised them for what they were. A worker's hands. A mother's. 

Such a person would not tolerate a spy in her town for much longer, and so Mariya nodded. There was no doubt that she and Pasi could take down any force that stood in their way- but there was also no doubt that she did not truly want to. There was only so much blood you could spill on your hands before it stopped washing off, and she knew that time had come long ago for her.

She reached for Pasijorn, felt his acceptance and his grudging respect for the woman when she tugged at their bond and knew that he would not protest.  
Mariya inclined her head, and took the paper bag from the old woman's hands.

When she peeked inside there was a dozen little things: a dazzling windchime made of the finest glass; a few little translucent balls that clinked against each other merrily; a brooch to pin against the lapel of her coat, and a leather case, for her new sunglasses. 

Mariya beamed. The woman blinked, startled -the butterfly's wings flapping quickly before settling again- before smiling too, slow and sure. "Thank you," she said, trying to enthuse her voice with the kind of gratefulness the woman deserved. This selection of trinkets was precious, her first few belongings bought of her own money, and even if the woman was trying to subtly kick her out, she appreciated it.

Those aged, tired eyes crinkled in response, and she knew she had succeeded. "You're welcome, dear," the woman said, warmly. "Stay safe, alright?"

She nodded, felt Pasijorn raise his head to nod in turn, and turned away. Striding away from the little stall, the sun a little lower in the sky, Mariya bubbled with happiness. Freedom tasted sweet on her tongue, the new sensation lowering her guard. While she knew she must focus again on her safety and her surroundings, she allowed herself a few more moments of pretence. Just a normal young woman, exploring the streets of the country she was born in and was learning again, her dæmon by her side, and she was whole and fierce and beautiful as any other person that walked beside her.

Then a man stopped right in front of her, back turned and attention focused entirely on the focus of his wrath while a huge dog-like dæmon growled at his side, and she walked right into him. Pasijorn, who had been relaxed around her neck, was knocked off her shoulders with the force of it. Mariya bounced back, shaking the hair out of her eyes even as she looked up, meeting his startled eyes. 

Pasijorn hadn't even started to hiss yet when she recognised him, and her training rose within her mind with the force of a hurricane.

* * *

_Howard Anthony Walter Stark. Caucasian male, brown eyes and brown hair, born on August 15th, 1917 in Richford, New York to lower-class parents. Grew up in the lower east side in New York City, is currently based in Los Angeles and therefore must be making investments in foreign weapon development or installing more SI facilities in Europe._

_Founder of Stark Industries, a multinational industrial company, which is quickly becoming one of the largest tech conglomerates in the world. Skilled with weapon design; any Stark designs and weapons are to be retrieved at any cost but discovery, to further HYDRA's scientific division. Stark is an inventor, with many patents to his name alone, a scientist, engineer and master businessman. Nicknamed the Army's Number One Weapons Contractor by American press, and known for his ruthless attitude to arms deals._

_Worked on various government projects that benefitted HYDRA's great purpose, including the Manhattan Project and Project Rebirth, which gave us both one of our greatest enemies and our greatest strength. The Soldier would not exist were it not for his brilliance, and so he deserves your respect, but not your mercy._

_Co-founder of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement, and Logistics Division, also known as S.H.I.E.L.D, the American extra-governmental military counter-terrorism and intelligence agency in which HYDRA grows, and thrives, and for that we are grateful._

_ Strengths: _

_Genius_ _level intellect_

_Training in hand-to-hand combat and arms_

_Wealth_

_Political power_

_Connections in the military and industrial sectors ma_ _de through his deals during the Second Great Failure and the aftermath_

_Fluent in his native English, as well as Latin, Spanish, French, Japanese, and Korean._

_ Weaknesses: _

_Mother_

_Ego_

_Company - easy to infiltrate due to his delegation of power._

_His love for his dæmon_

* * *

Mariya gasped, stumbling back from him. Her hand brushed his shoulder as she moved, and she felt as if she'd been burned.

"And you are?" Howard Stark said, filled with the kind of arrogance that came with a smidgen of truth. She had always hated people who had a reason for being arrogant. It always rubbed at her the wrong way.

 _Enemy,_ screeched a creature deep within Mariya's consciousness. Not Pasijorn, or her own mind, or that dark creature she could become with the right words- the whirlwind of blood and rage that answered only to one name: _the White Viper_. This voice did not belong; it was an infestation, and it knew only training and hatred. _Enemy_ , it insisted, hissing like the stars themselves were shattering. _Enemy of HYDRA. Eliminate at first opportunity._ But somehow, through her dæmon and a little bit of a miracle, she managed to pull the dregs of a laugh from her mind, brushing the voice asid (even if only for a moment). 

"Why, shouldn't I be asking that question?" Mariya said, thoughtlessly, in English. She only just managed to press an Italian accent into the traitorous words before they slipped from her lips. She cursed herself and her stupidity, and didn't protest the digging of Pasijorn's claws into her shoulder. Revealing herself to Howard Stark, one of America's most powerful businessmen, would've been a fatal mistake; she deserved a far less merciful punishment for the slipup. 

Howard blinked. Clearly, he wasn't used to not being recognised. Maria wondered if Americans really were as blissfully ignorant of the rest of the world as they seemed to be, or if it was all a clever act. The man's dæmon -a hulking mass of black fur that vaguely resembled a hyena- collapsed into a sitting position at his feet, staring up at them with wide, confused eyes and an open throat, and Maria almost laughed. Surely, they weren't all that stupid?

If he had a mind to, Pasijorn could rip out the poor dæmon's eyes and spill her throat on the floor before Stark's bodyguards could even _think_ to stop him.

"You don't know who I am?" Howard shifted, hand moving to dust across his dæmon's head, and his eyes finally narrowed in suspicion. Another two men that had been shadowing him slid out of the shadows (Maria had clocked them as her eyes had darted to meet Howard's- they weren't subtle), coming to stand at his sides. A tall, slim man stood slightly behind him, head tilted down and hands clasping two huge suitcases. He would be ordinary -boring, even- if it weren't for the sharpness of his gaze on Maria's face and the lioness prowling at his side.

Howard turned to his men, muttering, "Cool it, fellas. No need to get heated, now," and Maria winked at the man with the lioness dæmon. The man _-fairly young, just a few years away from being middle aged, just married _and happily so,_ going by the ring on his finger and the fit of his jacket -recently bought, perhaps because of a promotion, more likely because of a honeymoon- works for Howard Stark if the disgruntled look on his face at the expense of the luggage says anything, and has a position as his assistant- no, butler- _Edwin Jarvis smiles back at her, quick and surprised and gone with a blink, and Mariya turns her attention back to Stark.

He's staring at her, tracing the lines of her face with his gaze, and it's a mix of sizing her up to take her down and sizing her up in a way that reminds her of a pig being bought for slaughter. In response she makes her smile that much sharper, that much more practiced and sultry, and lets her amusement smooth over her expression like honey.

Let him think that wink was part of her personality. Let him think that she was a creature of roses, and let him forget the way she had sunk into her training- the way her body had moved into harsh lines and violent force- and how Pasijorn had sprung from her shoulders in a mix of falling and flight.

"How do you not know who I am?" Mariya rolled her eyes, making no effort to hide her disdain. But she followed it with a grin, full of warmth and the sugar that Italian summers bring, and she could almost see it slowly wiping away the suspicion in his eyes.

"Should I?" She raised a brow and huffed a quiet laugh. With a pronounced gesture -so those goons wouldn't freak and start shooting everything with a pulse- she lowered her hands from their defensive position in front of her chest to her sides, letting Pasijorn grasp onto her finger. Then, with a smooth lift of her arm, she looped him around her neck. He settled easily, completely , utterly, deceptively relaxed, and the bodyguards relaxed in turn. "You are an americano, no? A tourist?"

She laughed again, and watched through half-lidded eyes as it shuddered through Howard Stark in waves. Confusion. Hope. Relief. And, last of all, interest. At his feet, his dæmon's ears perked up. "What else is there to know?" There was no room for am answer in her voice, no uncertainty in the fact that she was joking.

This was a role she had chosen for herself, and she was determined to play it well. Simple, easy-going Italian woman with less of a plan for life and more of a direction to head in. No more, no less. "Indeed," he answered, like the stubborn bastard he was turning out to be. Mariya should have known: the files had mentioned he was a stuck-up prick (in considerably more violent terms, of course) and also a bit of a 'playboy'. 

She knew she wasn't imagining the slick, practiced curl of his smile, either.

"Anyway," she said, beginning to show restlessness. Normal people would be feeling awkward by now, probably making a rushed apology and leaving. So that's what she's going to do. Play the role and, hopefully, become it. "I guess I'll just-" She pointed awkwardly over his shoulder, and her smile turned a bit genuine when he followed it with his gaze, head tossing like a lost puppy. “I’m going to go, then.”

Howard’s mouth dropped to form an ‘o’ before he blinked rapidly, gaining control of himself. Mouth clicking shut, he nodded once, decisively, before sliding to the side to give her space to pass.

Mariya realised that -for all the street should have been filled with people- the bustle of shoppers had died down, leaving only a few stragglers. “Hmm,” Mariya said, watching the movements of a man in a navy suit as he focused fully on a little wooden elephant. Because that’s not suspicious at all.

“What’s wrong, miss?” Howard said, voice smooth and guileless. His dæmon shifted, clambering to her feet awkwardly, and if she hadn’t already been questioning the sudden silence, she would’ve been now.

“Nothing,” she said instead, shaking her head with a smile. She took a step forward into his space, until their faces were mere inches apart. Mariya grinned mischievously. “I do just adore coming to the market on a day like this. All the people really remind me why I love my city so much.”

Howard gaped. Again. Mariya resisted the urge to roll her eyes again and instead just sauntered gracefully past him, her skirt swishing against his legs as she moved.   
Fairly sure he was still spluttering behind her, Maria resumed her assessment of the surroundings.

The man he’d been arguing with had disappeared, probably having followed the butler -Edwin Jarvis- back to a car that would eventually return Mr Stark and themselves to their... establishments. The two men had been arguing as if they were friends, so it wouldn’t surprise her if they had visited this place together. 

Pasijorn wiggled on her shoulders, balancing precariously so he could watch her back. _He’s watching us go,_ her dæmon said, smugly. _His dæmon is looking at us like we’re already carrion, Ria._

Mariya hummed slightly, and showed no evidence of her hearing anything. _Let’s just leave it,_ she replied, eyes locked into the curve of the road in the distance. _Howard Stark will forget us soon enough, and I will just be yet another stranger that turned him down._

* * *

He doesn't let her go. 

His heart is alive -beating and fierce inside his chest- and he has not felt alive in so long, not since the end of the war and the bloodshed. Not since the Valkyrie dove into the sea with a man he loved inside it. That man had been the fiery core of the war to Howard, had been hope and flames and his beating heart. Steve Rogers had not loved him, of course. 

How could he?

Over the time that Howard had known him -short as it had been- he had learnt that Steve had a big heart, big enough for two, but not for him. To love him he would've had to have had a heart the breadth of a mountain, just to allow him to forgive Howard his crimes. Captain America had a heart big enough to care for the world, to adore his Commandos, and to love Peggy and Bucky.

But not him. Never him. 

Sometimes he wondered whether Steve had only managed to survive the burden of all that love because he had shared it with his dæmon. 

Steve Rogers' dæmon was a swiss mountain dog that had reached Steve's elbow when he was tiny, and his hips after the serum, and her name was Adelaide. She had loved as fiercely as her human had, had given everything she had to the war and to Steve. The dæmon had let herself become an attack dog, and had gained scars in her flesh that no technology would ever take away. They were there because Steve had them, and because no one would ever see them if she did not let them be seen, and so years after the plane crash when ice has swallowed him whole, Howard still wonders if Adelaide had chosen to let those scars remain, even after the wounds had healed perfectly. 

He wonders if they would still be there, if he ever found Steve Rogers and his dæmon, or if they had died on impact.

But this is what he thinks in the dead of night, when the world is shrouded in darkness and the sounds of war are close to his skin, hidden amongst the sounds of the city under silver-slick veils. These are the thoughts of a dead man, a soldier who died when his unrequited lover did, and not the businessman he is trying to forge himself into with shaking hands.

Now, he is standing on a street on Italy, and he is ordering his men to block off the entrance so that he may talk to a woman he has never spoke to before.

She is just a head shorter than him, staring at him with enough fire to make him feel small, and her dæmon is an exquisite lemur, curled around her neck as if they are somewhere exotic, with sand under their feet and waves lapping at their ankles, rather than on a road with enough fear in its past to clog his throat with ash. 

Howard Stark looks at her, with her wild dark curls and sun kissed skin and sharp, mocking laugh, and he thinks, _I have not felt alive in so long._ He takes a deep breath and it rattles in his chest, but it still comes, and with it words flow from his lips. He sounds like the ass he pretends to be for the media, as arrogant as he is in real life, and he watches the way it briefly twists her lips into a sneer, and he thinks, _Liar._

Then, her expression evens out into a mix of disinterest and perfectly crafted awkwardness, and part of him falls in love, just a bit. 

If he was honest to himself as he so rarely was (that was Aisha's job, most of the time), he knew that he had not loved Steve Rogers fully. He had loved the icon he became, and he had loved the soldier who had taken down HYDRA like he was born to do it, and he had loved the wide-eyed man who had sat at his desk and watched Howard make miracles from artillery parts. 

But if he had loved Steve Rogers in his entirety, then he would be able to say that he had loved the man he had been before the serum, before he was strong and fierce and legendary, and say it without the twist in his gut that came with every lie he told. But he couldn't.

This woman, however...

She fits into the idyllic Italian city so well; sauntering down the street as if she was made for it and, well, maybe she was. But her dæmon has claws -black, gleaming things that are steady on her shoulder- and he knows that's not natural. People with dæmons like that aren't innocent, or peaceful.

It sparks curiosity in his endlessly bored mind, and he thinks, _I co_ _uld love someone with a dæmon like that._

And, before she walks away from him, she says, "Nothing," with all the grace and poise of a woman who knows everything, and everyone, and every single way that you might respond. Unfortunately, Howard's type seems to be either people so good and bright that they blind him, or lethal creatures who might gut him with their pinkie finger.

He's quite cursed, really. 

Of course, then she makes it so, so much ~~better~~ worse by saying, "I do just adore coming to the market on a day like this. All the people really remind me why I love my city so much.” Howard gapes, because she's serious and profound but her irises are a bright, shocking green and gleaming with mischief, and he thinks, _you brilliant, devastating liar._

Then she starts to walk away -as if she hasn't made a millionaire love her with just one sentence- and Howard immediately admires her more for it. Her dæmon stares at him still, eyes wide and gold and unblinking, and he wonders if that is what she looks like on the inside, when all her mortal layers are peeled away.

The thought is tantalising enough to make him shut his mouth, swallow hard, and say, "Hey! Don't I even get to know your name?”

By his side, Aisha sits down on her haunches, muttering, “Oh, here we go."

The woman stops, and Howard watches the way her head tilts with something like curiosity. Still, she does not turn. It makes him feel like he's lost something. "Please? I've been lost for... a while now, I think, and- and I would like to see you again."

"Why?” He can only just see the side of her face, her body turned just enough that he can see the curl of her lips. Her head is tilted down, gaze trained on the floor, but Howard can tell all of her attention is on him. His throat is suddenly dry.

He swallows again. "Because I have been living in a world where everyone is the same, and everyone wants something from me, and I've never met someone like you."

After a brief pause, as if she had needed to decide something beforehand, the woman laughs - the sound reminiscent of a curl of smoke or a cat's prowl, for all the danger in it- and Howard's breath catches in his chest. "There are many people like me, Dr Stark."

Wicked delight unfurls in his chest, alongside the slightest hint of surprise. She hadn't seemed like a woman who would be caught off guard, nor did she seem like one wouldn't know the faces of those who had the most power, and Howard had recently acquired quite a lot. "None that haven't tried to kill me, though. You're the only one in that regard, I'm afraid." She laughs again. This time it's brighter, more clear, and he feels like he's passed some kind of test.

The woman looks over her shoulder at him, gaze sharp as she studies him, and he knows this isn't him being checked out- this is him being _assessed_. "So far," she says, as if she's not threatening the life of a millionaire. As if Howard hadn't needed to wield every weapon he made to truly understand them. Unable to help himself, Howard lets a sly smile rise. "We'll see, yes?"

He inclines his head, and the woman raises her chin- a disbelieving eyebrow cocking at the lack of protest- before turning and beginning to walk away once more. Her dæmon slinks back around her shoulders, his silver back to Howard as if they were no longer of importance. "Seriously?" he shouts, "Am I still not worthy of your name, ma'am?"

This time, she does not turn around, or pause. If anything, her steps become smoother, more feline, and she simply replies, "If you can find me without it, then you deserve to know it." Howard laughs.

Aisha, the rational lady that she is, just sighs. "I suppose that's the one," she says, utterly resigned.

Delighted, he turns to look at his dæmon and strokes a finger between her ears. She tilts her head up into his touch, and he knows that she found the pair as intriguing as she did. He hadn't missed the way Aisha had watched the woman's dæmon; ears pricked and dark gaze fixed on the lemur's golden eyes and piercing claws. Howard watches the way his dæmon stares up at him with unbearable fondness, and he remembers the way his parents had looked at him with such disappointment when his dæmon settled into a hyena at age 14.

He remembers the way his father had seen Aisha as a omen of Howard's life, as a representation of the destruction his son would bring to the world.

He had been right. But that doesn't mean he had the right to say it- to bring such terror to a 15 year old when they had barely began living. 

They had believed he did not know love, or kindness. They thought that the dæmon at his side meant he only dealt in death, not mercy. They were hypocrites- a husband and wife with no love for each other, parents with no love for their children, people with a snake and a bat for dæmons- and they had no right to treat his Aisha as they did when they alone had crafted him. His parents had wanted him to marry a worthy bride, someone who would look after his house and give him children, and care for his children in a way he never could. 

This woman may not become his wife, she might not even become his friend, but he had already proven his parents wrong in his ability to love the second Steve Rogers had asked him what it was like to have a dæmon that people feared, so he did not need her for that anyway. 

No. He watches the way she strolls away from him, relaxed and unafraid of his influence and destruction, and he knows that she may be the best chance he has at happiness. 

"I think so," he says to his dæmon, breathless. Howard has not felt alive in so very long and has never known the feeling of a true, unquestioning love. But that remarkable, brilliant liar who walked away for him may be the right start to learning what it's like.

And he looks back to his dæmon -so beautiful and deadly and eternally loyal at his feet- and, meeting her eyes, smiles.

"I think so," he repeats. Howard Stark would find her again, and he would earn the right to her name. Hopefully, he would even earn the right to her heart.

* * *

It takes months. 

She's in Finland by the time he finds her, closer to Russia and her borders than she'd wanted to be but feeling safer than she had in Italy, and Germany, and every other country she's been in. Mariya doesn't ask how he found her- she knows what he is, what forces he has at his disposal. She also knows of the struggles he has been undergoing in his own country through her various connections. Well, whatever connections had survived HYDRA's purge of her resources, that is.

Oddly enough, he does not try to arrest her or sequester her away to kill her privately. Instead, he approaches her while she is sitting in a small café by the coast.

He is silent on his feet, dæmon padding in quietly by his side, but Mariya has frequented this café for weeks now and has hacked into the cameras outside for this very reason. It is that, and the bell above the door, that make her look up at exactly the right moment, meeting Howard Stark’s eyes just as he goes to pull out a chair. She hums, a challenge in her eyes, and the man chuckles quietly.

He sits down, and his dæmon curls up at his feet. The hyena is under the table enough to avoid being tripped over, but her head is not. Mariya almost startles- the dæmon’s dark irises locked into her- before she forces the impulse down.

She looks away, fingers tapping at the table.   
“Hello again,” Howard says, after they have been sitting in silence for a good few minutes. He had been waiting for her to break first, and his voice is tense because of it. That, or he’s unsettled by the fact that he can’t see her dæmon.

Pasijorn is above her head, prowling along the beams made especially for the use of agile dæmons, such as birds or primates. _Blunt man, isn’t he?_ Pasijorn says in her mind, and Mariya lets a smile slip to her lips. She only replies in the thrum of amusement that echoes down their bond, shifting the beat of her finger tapping to spell out 

“Bonjour, Monsieur Stark,” she says, threading a hand through her hair to calm her blonde curls. They bounce back up after her touch, and she resigns herself to their messiness. She does not flicker at her rapid decision to change her language. She’d been Italian before, and was French now. Simple as that.

Howard grins triumphantly. “How are you, Mariya?”

She does not reply, for a time. Instead, she raises an eyebrow and leans down to take her head band from her bag. The sky blue fabric is soft and supple under her palm, and she ties it carefully around her head before looping it into a bow at her forehead.

She keeps eye contact the entire time. Uncomfortable, Howard shifts in his seat. He eyes the changes in her appearance curiously, gaze catching on the gold of her hair and the brown of her eyes, before tracing over the curve of her glasses. 

“I’m going to assume you’re doing well, seeing as you haven’t yet been arrested for your dubious work with ‘The Motherland‘.” Howard crooks his fingers in place of speech marks, and Mariya breaks composure to roll her eyes. Why on Earth did she invite this man to find her again? Why did she not just kill him?

“Howard, you are not making this better for yourself,” says his dæmon, harshly. Mariya does jump, this time- but she forgives herself it. Dæmons do not usually speak in front of others, and definitely don’t chide their humans in front of others. 

It just isn’t done- not in such a constricting society as this one.

Yet, Howard doesn’t even blink. “Oh hush, Aisha, she said herself to call her by her Christian name.” His dæmon - _Aisha_ \- opens her mouth to speak, elegant canines bare, but Maria interrupts. 

“ _She_ said that you would earn that right, actually,” Mariya hisses, voice forcefully quiet. “Also, _she_ has a name- you found it out, I suggest you damn well use it.” Both human and dæmon blink at her, eyes wide and eerily familiar, and then the similarities break when Howard grins again while Aisha rolls her eyes, huffing.

“Told you, Aisha.” His joyful smile is very, _very_ irritating. “Now, shall we discuss your questionable past and the skeletons in your closet, or shall we blow this popsicle stand?”

Mariya tips her head back, letting out a long, slow breath. There’s a pause- eyes set on Pasijorn’s slow, certain movements above her- and she can feel Howard studying the curve of her neck. She lets him, for a time, before she raises her hand, palm flat out. “What are you-“ Pasijorn leaps from the beam, landing swiftly on her hand before scuttling down her arm. “-oh.”

They both turn to Howard, equally dangerous in their focus, and he swallows visibly. Strangely, he doesn’t seem scared. If anything, he seems... intrigued. Aroused, even. ”I- Personally I would go for the second option if- if that were what you wanted,” he says, voice strained. He swallows again. Aisha is sitting up straight now, watching Pasijorn keenly. “Is that something you would like?”

Mariya looks at him. Assesses. He’s bright in posture and words, but his eyes are tired and underlined with exhaustion. Both he and his dæmon are restless, constantly looking for threats in this tiny cafe. Logically, they should know that danger is unlikely here.

Other than her, of course.

But she had wanted peace, and had forged it from this quiet haven, and so they should know from her past that this is the safest place they could be in this country, for as long as she wished it so. And yet, they irrationally look for danger.

A sign of terror, or PTSD, as it was now coming to be called.

She makes her decision.

”Let’s go,” she says, standing up. Pasijorn’s claws scrape against her neck, but he does not protest. “While we’re at it, you can tell me what’s got you looking so spooked.”

Howard crumples. Aisha rubs her head against his legs, and then they both stand. Begging for strength from whatever damned god would listen, Maria drains the rest of her coffee, relishing the burst of caffeine as it hits her system, and sends him a fortifying smile. There are more weapons on her right now than there are in most artillery rooms in the west, and she’s not afraid. Maybe he sees this, because his shoulders raise and he nods.

”Let’s go.” Howard’s voice shakes slightly, but she ignores it. Full of confidence, she walks towards the door. 

”Au revoir,” Mariya says, waving to the barista, Jessica. Jessica says goodbye with a jut of her chin, then blows a laughing kiss as she tugs at the door, which jolts open with a trembling frame and sharp chime of the bell. Noisy and belligerent, Howard stumbles after her, throwing out a goodbye in messy French as he passes the doorway. Maria restrains a grimace. 

To Jessica and the others in that cafe, she had been a french student studying economics at the local university. Now she isn’t sure that they will fully believe her next time she returns. If she’s even able to.

Howard Stark is too recognisable, and he marks her as someone important, not someone you can easily dismiss with a nod and a kiss.

They turn out onto the street, and Mariya loops an arm through Howard’s, pressing an easy smile onto her lips and curling her body towards his as she pulls him into a brisk walk.

”You idiot,” she spits, French accent gone in favour of an American one. For the first time in months, her voice is tinged with a kind of western arrogance, mixed with the soft, lilting care of California. Like this, they could be tourists. Hopefully no one will look twice. Howard dregs up an apologetic smile, and Mariya attempts to shrug the tension from her shoulders. She fails.

“Where do you want to go?” Howard says, voice quiet as if they were lovers, whispering into each other’s ears. For once in her life, she doesn't quite know. There are many options: her house here, in Finland, which is all too quiet and empty for her too spend more than a few hours in; wherever Howard is residing currently; a quiet, public place, such as the beach itself; a different café or a restaurant.

In the back of her mind, she knows she has far more options than that. Mariya has lodgings in over 20 countries now -some large and luxurious, others tiny apartments or simple houses tucked away on a forgettable street- and in the countries she doesn't, she knows enough people that she could call in debts to get near anywhere in the world. 

But she does not mention this, because there is no way Howard Stark could ever find it out; she couldn’t let him know everything, and Mariya has never been a woman who gives freely. 

Pasijorn is quick by their feet, unable to lay on her shoulders due to how pressed together they are, and he glances up at her. _We cannot follow him,_ he tells her, harsh and reasonable as she needs him to be. Hesitating, Mariya lets her uncertainty roll down the bond. Of course she knows this, but they can't let him into their home, either. _We cannot be that trusting of him, Mariya, nor can we let ourselves be vulnerable. We did that before -I let you do that before- because I knew we could handle it. But if we let him decide where we go then we are giving him far too much power over us._

She knows that he is right. In fact, she had been thinking the very same thing. But there has always been a part of her that wanted to be normal, that wanted to trust someone other than her dæmon, and the Red Room and HYDRA had never succeeded in stamping it out- no matter how much they tried.

Fortunate or unfortunate as it may be, she always had Pasijorn to remind her of the reality. He is every bit the assassin that she is, if not colder and more callous. Plus, she had let that soft-hearted part of her take the reins for far too long.

Maria nods to her dæmon, and then guides them into an alleyway. ”I know a place,” she says. Mariya forces the lingering tension in her shoulders to dissipate, and lowers her bag closer to the floor. Without even waiting for them to pause, Pasijorn jumps into the bag, and she hooks it higher up her arm; he is hidden from any prying eyes, now. Just as they liked it.

Aisha barks in surprise, no doubt as shocked as Howard is- his grip on her tightening- and she huffs quietly, pressing a finger to her lips. The alleyway is dark, the arched ceiling above them blocking out most of the light and, while it is probably empty, she doesn't want to take chances. Howard has already drawn enough attention to her. "I am staying here, away from the wandering eyes of the street. My neighbours think my dæmon is tiny, hidden in this-" she lifts up her necklace, revealing the small cage-like compartment that had been hidden beneath her blouse "-and I would like to keep it that way. It makes me more... normal."

Howard nods, but Mariya is more focused on the way Aisha's claws tap against the cobblestones and how the sound echoes. Silence was always the best policy in this neighbourhood, no matter how low the crime rate supposedly is in Finland.

There is always an exception, and she didn't want it to be them.


End file.
